


shall i stay

by transiock



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 21:37:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19326586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transiock/pseuds/transiock
Summary: 1941-- They walk out of the rubble and head to their respective homes. Aziraphale tries to go about business as usual, tries to think about anything other than Crowley risking his life, body, and soles of his feet to save him, tries to bury himself in his reading, but nothing can get Crowley out of his mind.So, Aziraphale gives him a ring.





	shall i stay

It’s far past midnight, and most of the city has gone to bed. Few cars rush past headlight first, and the street lamps cast a distinct, buzzing light through the window above a corner bookshop, light which lands on the stacks of books Aziraphale has lined the floors, wall, and edges of his desk with. Aziraphale is currently at his desk, candle burning beside him, book in front of him.

These are his usual reading hours. He gathers what he wants to read most in the stacks closest to him, hiding in them while the city buzzes quietly just outside his window, and it’s normally very easy to focus. Normally, the buzz from the city becomes an ambient drone, the candle a passive light, and the book a whole world. Tonight, however, Aziraphale is staring at the candle instead of the page.

Today wasn’t terribly eventful. He blackmailed Nazis in a church, only to have the Nazis blackmail him in return, almost got discorporated in said church only for his demon acquaintance to roast his feet to save Aziraphale’s body and books from the bomb he got to land on those threatening him. All of which makes him feel something possibly somewhat resembling emotions that he had never felt before, emotions he had a hard time putting a name to.

He’s grateful, which is to be expected. He could be grateful for Crowley saving his things the way he’s grateful when Crowley goes to Germany or France to keep up his side of the arrangement. But Aziraphale knew the drumming in his chest when he thought about the casual, but intense, elegance of Crowley in saviour mode is much more than being grateful. It felt more like someone gripping his immaterial heart and soul in a tight fist. Thank you doesn’t express that.

And knowing all of that isn’t the problem, but rather the fact that he wants to act on it, that he wants to say more than thank you. The various problems (Crowley being his destined enemy, the fact that he would surely be smote the moment the angels got wind of anything, the fact that demons aren’t exactly known for their being upstanding and moral (despite all Crowley’s done for him) etc.) don’t feel like enough to hold him back. Which is a bit ridiculous. Those reasons are enough to get both of them killed.

He huffs and gets up from his desk to make himself a nice, warm cup of cocoa that ought to calm him down. He keeps his mind as blank as possible as he makes it, carrying it to the sofa, and settling. He sighs with contentment, closing his eyes and taking the first sip. Any situation can be made better with cocoa, Aziraphale firmly believes, and this is no exception.

When he opens his eyes, the telephone sitting on a nearby end table catches his eye. It’s dark, and heavy, and reminds him of someone he’s trying very hard not to think about. But the cocoa must be going straight to his head because his self-control breaks in less than thirty seconds. His mug is set on the table, his finger on the dial, before he can think twice about it. He had only recently got the demon’s number. Crowley said it was for emergencies

He answers at two rings, his voice accompanied by the gruffness of sleep. Aziraphale always wondered why the embodiment of sin couldn’t stand to be awake past midnight.

“Angel?”

“Yes. Hello.”

“A wonderful time for a chat, the middle of the night. Are you in more trouble? Should I send another bomb?”

Aziraphale can’t help laughing, “No, no. Well, not yet, I suppose. I, er, have to tell you something.”

“How important is it?”

“Uhm. Rather, I’d say.”

“And you can’t tell me like this?”

“If trees and ducks have ears, can you imagine how many telephones have?”

“...A fair point. I’m coming over.”

“You don’t have to--”

Crowley’s line _clicks_ off. Aziraphale sighs, rubbing his eyes with one hand and setting the telephone down with the other. He takes another sip of his oca for strength and gets up. He hasn’t seen Crowley much in the past century, but if he knows anything, he knows he’ll be here as soon as physically possible.

Sure enough, by the time Aziraphale makes it to the door, Crowley is knocking. He opens it to see Crowley dressed in the same suit he wore to the church, except without the hat, and the tie’s gone, and the top three buttons are undone. Aziraphale pauses for a moment, looking him up and down before Crowley’s eyebrows are high enough in expectation for Aziraphale to step to the side and let him in.

Aziraphale shuts the door and walks behind Crowley as he surveys the place. His face is mostly neutral, but Aziraphale can’t help but worry he’s being critical. Crowley stops once he reaches the open space of the den.

“It’s nice,” he says, “Quiet.”

“It’s served me well.”

“The bookshop is a nice touch.”

“I think so, yes.”

“Do you actually sell any books?” Crowley asks, turning on his heel to face Aziraphale.

“Well-- No… Not really.”

“Not really?”

“Not at all, actually,” he fidgets with the hem of his waistcoat, “I have more books upstairs.”

“I’m not surprised.”

Aziraphale’s brief smile is accompanied by a breathy laugh, Crowley steps toward him, taking his sunglasses off while he moves with that slow, suave confidence and hanging them on his shirt. It dips with the weight. Aziraphale resists the urge to lick his lips.

“You have something to tell me?”

“Oh!” he jumps straight, “Right, uh, yes…” He wrings his hands together, “Yes.”

He cocks his head, hanging his thumb in his belt loop, “Come on, Angel. Spit it out.”

“I-- Well, I just-- I don’t really know how to say it.”

“You don’t have to reiterate the whole “don’t-want-to-talk-to-me” thing. And you don’t have to thank me.”

“It’s not that,” Aziraphale says looking at the ground, sure that his face is on fire, “It’s the opposite of that, actually.”

“You don’t want to say thank you.”

“No, well, yes, but-- no-- Can you please be quiet?” he whines.

Crowley grins, “Yes, sorry, your majesty.”

“Ha,” Aziraphale says dryly. He looks down, his hands folded in front of him. “I would just like to say…” his bites his lip, “Well, I-- I rather, I mean, I think--” He sighs slowly and closes his eyes, “I love you.”

“...Sorry?”

He opens his eyes again, but can’t find enough resolution to look Crowley in the eye, “Well, I guess it’s more-- It’s more than that, but for simplicity’s sake--”

“Aziraphale.”

He takes a breath and looks up at his demon. Crowley’s brows are furrowed, his face struck dumb. A moment after they make eye contact, Crowley steps closer.

“I’m-- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to--”

“Angel.” He says softly. He reaches a hand out and places it on Aziraphale’s cheek, which immediately goes a bright red.

“You don’t have to say it back. I just needed to say something, anything.”

Crowley’s face spreads into a warm smile, “I know.”

“Well, I’m glad you understand.”

He shakes his head, “No, Angel, I _know._ You never needed to say anything.”

His voice, is softer than Aziraphale has ever heard it. It crawls up his back and settles somewhere in his throat, “I don’t-- I-- What?”

“I know. It’s been millennia. I know. And of course, of course, I love you. Of course. Always have.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth, his eyes darting over Crowley’s face, no sound escaping. His heart is in a state of shock, his tongue-tied in the most pleasant way. Crowley’s fingers on his cheek are cold. Aziraphale leans into them.

“Would you mind if I kissed you?”

Aziraphale feels on the verge of imploding or crying. He shakes his head, “Wouldn’t,” he whispers, “I wouldn’t mind at all.”

Crowley’s smile transfigures into a sharp grin. Time slows, and Aziraphale can’t quite feel where he’s standing, but he can feel how soft Crowley’s lips are, how gentle his movements are, almost as if he’s offering over everything good he’s made of. His other hand makes a stop at the angel’s hip, and Aziraphale, consumed in the safety of Crowley, grips his shirt, pulling him as close as he can manage.

Danger, discorporation, disownment-- all of it is pushed to the far edges of his thoughts. Everything with him and Crowley is exactly where it should be.

 

**Author's Note:**

> my first gomens fic! i cannot get these two off my mind, so, ofc, i wrote something for them (expanding on one of my favorite scenes).
> 
> hope you enjoyed! feel free to leave kudos and comments. <3


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